The Lonely Violin Part II

It called to me. It was a beautiful sound, rising and falling like the waves. But it was sad, so sad. The violin howled out into the night, swirling upon the moon-lit winds. And it led me to itself, and to my end.

I knew that the violin gave its lonely call every night, but I had never felt it tug at me like I did that night. It was like it was calling to me, like the strings were crooning just to me. The notes came in through the window, and brought me awake. Their sad provocations made me put on my coat and shoes, and walk out into the street.

I made my way to the outskirts of town, where there was an Italian villa-style house. It may have once been beautiful, but now it was a prime example of neglect. The paints had peeled, bricks were caressed and pulled out by vines, the statues grown a winter coat of fuzzy green moss. Out of the broken windows came the melody, its melancholy drawing me. I wanted to end the exile, for it spoke of solitude, of the desire for another person to be with them.

And so, I pushed open the doors, which screeched open, badly needing oil. I closed the door, but it didn’t latch properly, and so caught the wind, and continued to creek, open and closed, over and over. I thought nothing of it at the time.

Moving further into the bowels of the villa, I passed room after decayed room. The chairs had lost their stuffing, leaving wooden skeletons, and the lamps had lost their shades, the bulbs long shattered. Carpet was worn through, showing the boards of the house’s frame, which had not been spared from the onslaught of bug and damp. But nothing mattered; my only thought was that of moving forward to the violin that was playing, somewhere beyond. And so, forward I still ventured.

Moving down a hallway, a door creaked open, and a light flickered on, showing the shadow of a woman in a chair, sobbing, her cries echoing off the corroded walls. Her wails were those of lost love, of a life of harsh conditions. It bit at my ears, as it joined in with the door and the instrument, but I still trudged forward, forever moving towards the lone musician.

Then, a baby’s howls rebounded from above; asking for a mother that I was sure would never come. It pierced my skull, as all the sounds came together in a frightful cacophony, beautiful, but terrible as well. An unholy wind would rush through the holes of the house, sounding like the moans of ghosts barred from an ethereal plane, and a cold rain would clack on what glass was left on the windows, the sky’s tears falling from on high.

And the violin, the God awful violin, growing louder and louder, tearing at my eardrums, chaffing away at my sanity, until I couldn’t take it. It was all too much. I stumbled into an abandoned kitchen, and, grabbing the sharpest, largest knife I could find, sliced my ears off, and threw them on the floor, masticating them under my heel. But I could still hear it; the horrible symphony still played, and I could still hear it. So then I took the knife to my neck, slashing a wet red smile across it, hoping that Death would take me from the maddening music. But he offered me no respite.

I climbed up the mildewed stairs, up to a balcony, where the rough flagstone grabbed at my clothes and my skin. But I didn’t care. Nothing mattered except getting away. I climbed up on the railing, and, surrounded by a cloak of rain and demented melody, I jumped. I heard my bones crunch beneath me, a flourish in the symphony. But even my shattered body did not offer me instant relief. It left me in agony for hours, until finally, as dawn’s ruddy cheeks graced the skies, cloaked Death came for me, taking me away from the dam.ned music.

And. Looking down upon my broken form, I saw a thing crawl out from the villa, holding a violin, and smiling. Then he straight at me, his jagged teeth bared at me in a perversion of a grin. And it sent a cold shiver down my spine, colder than Death at my shoulder, colder that I had ever been. And after, I knew, even if I had plunged into the heart of Hell, I would never be warm again. He had torn some part of me, irretrievably rent from my very soul. And all he did was smile.

Subscribe

Get Teen Ink’s 48-page monthly print edition. Written by teens since 1989.